


Thrush

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-13
Updated: 2017-07-13
Packaged: 2018-12-01 14:12:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11488032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: A quiet moment after work.





	Thrush

**Author's Note:**

  * For [breakaway](https://archiveofourown.org/users/breakaway/gifts).



> A/N: Fill for gotham-haze’s “#29 [Flying] for Glorfindel/Ecthelion” request on [my tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/) [from this list](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/post/162565904960/prompt-list-3).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Silmarillion or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

It isn’t until the early evening that Ecthelion finishes all his duties, having been up at the crack of dawn to begin. Arien is still high above by the time he’s retired his sword and helm in the training yards, down to the softer robes of a noble—lilac with silver trim. He drifts through the streets of Gondolin for one specific purpose—as weary as he is, he’s never too tired for _Glorfindel_.

When he approaches the white walls of Glorfindel’s estate, the guard at the door nods him off to the side, and Ecthelion wordlessly obeys—they must know by now exactly what he’s come for. Those of his own house know the same, although Ecthelion’s left them different instructions, for Glorfindel can’t always be left to his own devices. Ecthelion knows him too well for that. And Ecthelion knows what mischief he might come home to if the lord of the Golden Flower were to have free rein about his home. A flawless trap might be set, so that Ecthelion might never leave.

Ecthelion thinks about Glorfindel too much on duty as it is. As he strolls around the gardens of the grand estate, he’s already wondering what he’ll find. Perhaps Glorfindel will be out in the wild heat, shirtless and setting rocks aside, clearing space for a new fountain. His grounds have far too little, especially this time of year, where the earth is warm and the breeze too light. Ecthelion’s often offered to help build some—provided, of course, that he could afford time away from his duties.

When he finally reaches the back garden, long and sweeping down around the wide stairs of the building, there’s no work being done at all. Somehow, Glorfindel’s managed the exact opposite: he lounges between two tall trees, suspended in a stretch of fabric that Ecthelion takes a moment to place—a hammock, he thinks? He’s never been inclined to such frivolities himself.

He strolls forward, and as soon as the peak of his shadow slips over Glorfindel’s chest, Glorfindel opens his bright eyes and murmurs, “I had hoped to see you today.”

“Your hope is answered,” Ecthelion chimes while his eyes follow the contraption. It isn’t quite still, but rocking back and forth, like a boat might do on the water. It’s only lightly touched by the shadows of branches overhead: the rest is a clear view to the sky. Glorfindel’s gaze flickers there, and Ecthelion follows to see an eagle in the distance, so far away that it’s little more than a speck. He has to lift a hand to shield his eyes from the glare.

“It feels like I’m flying,” Glorfindel breathes, quiet but more entranced than sleepy. “The way it gently rocks me, and I can see nothing but the air...” He lets out a long sigh, and for a moment, Ecthelion thinks he’ll mention _that_ again: the one thing he never should, not even to someone he trusts so much as Ecthelion, because _no one is to leave_ , and that desire to soar through other lands is nearly blasphemous. They’ve both already seen enough of the world. More than most. 

And Ecthelion tries to draw Glorfindel back into contentment, right here, just the way they are, by asking, “Is there room for two?”

Glorfindel breaks into a wide grin, as Ecthelion knew he would. He’s perfectly pleasant by nature and would’ve gotten Ecthelion into his hammock one way or another; Ecthelion gives in simply to save time. He places a steadying hand on the side without waiting for Glorfindel’s answer, then hikes himself up all at once.

It sways wildly beneath him, causing him to tense and nearly lose his balance, to which Glorfindel laughs. It irks Ecthelion, as _new_ things occasionally do, but Glorfindel was new to him once, and that proved wondrous. He simply holds steady, on all fours and leaning slightly over Glorfindel’s weight, until the hammock steadies again.

Then he stretches out as carefully and slowly as he can, until he’s lying tight against Glorfindel’s side. Glorfindel turns slightly to look at him, and when Ecthelion returns it, Glorfindel rubs their noses together.

“You should sing me a song like the nightingales,” Glorfindel purrs, low and sweet. “That would complete my dream.”

In a way, Ecthelion does want music, but a different kind—he wishes he’d brought his flute. Because the world _is_ beautiful from this angle, and feeling Glorfindel at his side is always a fitting muse. He murmurs, “Another time.”

Glorfindel just nods. Ecthelion threads their fingers together, settles in, and becomes one with the birds.


End file.
